After a recent Broadway matinee performance of "Fiddler on the Roof," a small group of Orthodox matrons clustered outside the Minskoff Theater on 46th Street. I asked them what they thought of the show. "That was our world until it was destroyed," lamented one, a survivor from Hungary. "I wept," added another quickly, rolling up a sleeve to reveal an Auschwitz tattoo.
To the first person: Huh? And to the second's actions: Huh?
Well, I know what's up, but I still wonder.
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